


cumbersome and heavy

by punkedupkicks



Series: All for Freedom, And for Pleasure [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1930s, Established Relationship, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Religious Guilt, Trans Male Character, Trans Steve Rogers, but it's apart of the universe, if that makes sense, this is mainly a vent fic that i wrote in about an hour, this would take place sometime at the start of the next work in this series, unsafe binding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27376264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkedupkicks/pseuds/punkedupkicks
Summary: Not all thoughts are good thoughts, and sometimes Steve just can't keep some thoughts at bay.(STANDALONE)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: All for Freedom, And for Pleasure [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816939
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	cumbersome and heavy

**Author's Note:**

> hi so this is a lil vent fic i wrote bc dysphoria do be like that sometimes, and i don't think this is actually trash so here ya go

Steve sighs and crosses his arms over his chest –the chest that was just never flat enough, no matter how many times he tried to flatten it down. It popped up again like a whack-a-mole. Or like a mouse that kept peeping out of the hole in the wall, it was just something that felt overall disgusting to him and left a bad taste in his mouth and an uneasy setting in his stomach. 

The pain around his ribs restricts him in multiple ways, he should really take it off—he knows he should, it’s really not good for him especially, he needs to be able to breathe—but he feels like he couldn’t breathe comfortable without it anyway. The stabbing pains around his heart would still be there, like they always were. 

He grunts as he adjusts the garment bound around his chest, he still doesn’t have a name for it yet. But he clings to it like it’s all he has. It grounds him, keeps his feet on the ground and his head out the clouds. 

He can feel the strain in his lungs with each uneven breath he takes. Letting out not even a grunt as he tries to take a breath, he can’t be too loud right now, can’t use his voice right now. Not when all he hears is a little girl echoing back. 

The fabric is itchy upon his slumped and sunken position of the couch, inexpensive and waring couch-fabric (whatever it was called) scratched uncomfortably against Bucky’s already itchy leftover work shirt—it was just big and baggy enough for Steve to adopt it as a comfort item, it allowed him to hide in it like a little kid and pretend he wasn’t physical for a moment, to pretend like he didn’t have a body and just simply _was._ Oh, how he wished his mind wasn’t always on what he found dissatisfying about himself one way or another all the time. 

That was something he knows guys like Bucky will never have to worry about, he’ll never have to spend fifteen plus minutes in the mirror readjusting his tie so it sits at that very special position that gives the illusion that Steve’s neck wasn’t about as thin as a child’s finger, or wonder if your slacks are too tight on your hips. Or wonder if tomorrow you’re gonna wake up to a fine or if one particularly observant person might notice something, notice why you’re different. And then it’s all over. 

While Steve’s mind was on Bucky, he glanced to the clock which was hung upon the wall. _15:15_ it read, that meant Bucky would be home from his shift at the docks soon. That was something Steve was worried about; Bucky had been taking extra shifts recently to pay for Steve’s extra medicine as he had managed to have a pretty bad tuberculosis scare back in January. He’d tried to tell Bucky that it was unnecessary countless times, but he always insisted that it was ‘ _completely fine, pal!’_ and sometimes Steve just really wants to hit him over the head with a rolled-up newspaper. 

It’s quiet. Normally there would be some mellow jazz coming from the kitchen radio, or perhaps one of those sports narrators that spoke in that funny voice. But there wasn’t a peep or even the sound of droplets of water from the crappy tap filling the silence. And there isn’t Bucky either, singing along to the radio making those ridiculous sounds, ‘scatting’ as it was called apparently. 

Steve did find it incredibly captivating though, he would never be caught dead telling Bucky that however. But he does enjoy it, even if he personally thinks that Bucky doesn’t sound all too different from a cat strangling a mouse when he was ‘singing’. 

That was another thing, the amount of time Bucky spent in the kitchen. Steve felt guilty, Bucky would come home after hours of physical labour for barely even a dime and then immediately come and whip up this fancy meal for the two of them –or as fancy as a starving artist and a dock boy could make—and insist that he was completely fine with it. 

Every time that makes Steve want to hit something. Because here Steve was, sitting around all day, making silly doodles and selling them for less than a can of beans would cost. While Bucky went and did all the hard work, like a real man should. 

Maybe he should suck it up and pick up a crate himself, start packing them of the back of boats all day. Use those twig arms of his to actually get to movin’, maybe he’ll do enough stacking crates that is voice might drop and he might grow a spec of hair on his face. Or something. All the boys down at those docks all had sharp jawlines and toned arms, maybe it comes with the job. 

Or maybe Steve should just pack it up and start making the dinner himself for a change. Maybe dust a thing or two while Bucky’s gone, maybe he’ll do something useful for a change. 

He could wear his hair in pins again and pick up a ‘ _Cooking for Dummies’_ or ‘ _Best Meals to Cook your Lousy Husband!’_ book from the local bookstore. He could make it all nice and pretty for when Bucky got home and have everything out nice for him, he bets he would love it if he walked in to an aroma of nice smells from the stove. Does cabbage stew smell nice? Steve wouldn’t fuckin’ know. 

Maybe he should just give up the act already and act like a proper lady like everyone apparently wants him to. That’s what a good Little Catholic Girl would do, that’s what a good wife would do. 

Steve allows himself to snort at the irony for a moment, this isn’t exactly what most girls picture when they think of marriage, is it?

A semi-loud recognisable knock is made from the wooden door. Steve doesn’t need to check the clock to know who it is. 

Steve doesn’t bother moving as he hears the familiar thump of heavy boots against the floor get closer to him. He doesn’t think he could anyway, he’s far too tired. 

“Hey, Stevie!” Bucky calls from the hallway. A dorky smile upon his face as he appears into the living room where Steve is currently slumped over on their battered-up poor excuse of a couch “I’m baaaack!” he greets in a sing-song voice. 

Normally, this would be the time when the wife gets up and presses a big ol’ kiss onto the husbands face as she takes off his coat and he sit down on the couch. ‘ _Bring me a beer’_ he would probably say, letting his socked feet rest upon the coffee table and allow his head to hang back on the back of the couch. And the wife would be scrambling to acquire said beer from the fridge, her hair left in rags which will appear as nice curls tomorrow morning. 

_Normally_ is the key word here. Normalcy was something quite unknown to the pair of them. 

Steve humours himself with the mental image of Wife-Stevie and Husband-James, it humours him because something like that, a life like that will never be something available for either of them. They don’t even have a coffee table for Christ sake. 

Bucky kicks off his shoes rather carelessly and plops himself onto the couch right beside Steve. Steve’s nostrils flared for a moment as he caught a slight ting of an alcoholic smell coming from Bucky. Not enough to imply that he had been drinking any but enough to suggest he had been around people he had. Most likely those boys at the docks that he works with were, they were troublemaker’s Steve hears. He wonders how none of them have been fired yet when the boss caught them sneaking powder round the back. Steve had met one of them once or twice, but the names escape him. One of them did have a J name, though. 

“Hey punk.” Bucky greets cheerfully and slightly out of breath, he looks tired. 

Steve wants to say hi back, but it’s almost as if his mouth is physically preventing him from answering. He wants to answer, he knows exactly what he wants to say –call him a stupid jerk or something—but he can’t bear to hear the pathetic squeak that was his voice. If it could even be called that. 

Bucky’s cheerful expression dropped almost immediately when he didn’t hear Steve greet him back “Somethin’ wrong?” he asks, and his eyebrows pinch together in concern. It almost unease’s Steve how much they care for each other, Bucky should be out there gettin' girls and having a drink with his new dock friends, living that prime adolescent life or whatever. Not sitting here catering to a crippled fag like Steve was. But he knows that Steve getting by himself is out of the question on his own. 

Steve’s body allows himself to respond with a subtle headshake, okay, so that was a response at least. But truly, Steve didn’t even really feel it happen. He doesn’t feel in control of his body much, he feels more like a puppeteer or something instead. He wonders if everyone feels like that from time to time or if it’s yet again just him being Weird. 

Bucky seems to appreciate Steve’s ‘response’ as some of the tension in his face leaves, only for it to return again. 

“What’s the matter, Steve?” he asks, concerned, as he moves closer to Steve and presses a hand against his forehead. Bucky’s hand is as warm and firm as usual “You’re not sick...” he thinks aloud, resting back against the couch “So what’s the hold up, doll? You got bored ‘a me already?” he teased. But Steve could pick up on the worry there. 

Steve shakes his head again, and Christ, he’s already exhausted from such a small movement, maybe he is glad that Bucky is picking up extra shifts for medicine after all, maybe. 

Bucky just looks confused “Did I do somethin’? Is this silent treatment I'm gettin’?” he jokes. 

If Steve didn’t feel guilty before, then he does now. Honestly, right now all he wants to do is be curled up in bed with Bucky right now, Bucky’s strong arms around Steve’s slender frame, pulling him close in their risky shared bed. That's what he _wants_ to do right now, but honestly, if Bucky has to touch any of the _disgusting_ curves of Steve’s body right now, he’d do better to claw his own skin off, and he knows that doesn’t work. He’s tried. 

“no... I’m not...” Steve manages to respond quietly. And he finds himself physically recoiling at the feminine squeak that escaped him, Jesus. Does he always sound like that? 

“He speaks!” Bucky exclaimed; arms raised in the air mockingly. 

Steve flashed Bucky an awkward smile. 

“No but really Stevie, are you alright?” Bucky asks, once again concerned. 

“Don’t call me that!” Steve responds on impulse, clamping a hand his mouth as the high-pitched tone echoes through his head. Yup, he’s never opening his mouth again. 

Bucky furrows his eyebrows “What? —you sure you’re okay, man? You seem kinda—” Bucky trailed off before his gained an expression of realisation, and Steve could pinpoint the moment when it hit him “Oh.” he said, and his expression instantly changed “I’m sorry.” he consoles. 

_Don’t be._ Steve thinks. 

“How long have you been...here?” he questioned in a voice now ten times softer and more serious than the sentence before, and if Steve and Bucky weren’t practically attached at the hip the change would’ve been jarring. 

Steve processes the question, and finds that he can’t exactly remember when he had sat down, but the last number he remembers is 12pm, so he’ll go with that. Steve held up three fingers. 

“Three hours...okay.” Bucky said. 

Steve doesn’t like the position he’s in right now. He doesn’t like being babied, at all actually, but also, he doesn’t have the mental or physical strength or willpower to move a single muscle right now. He’d rather just...be. But also lying around doing nothing only amplifies the voice in his head he’s a waste of a _perfectly good Catholic girl,_ and he wants to throw up—if one could throw up thoughts that is. 

Bucky pushes his sweat-covered hair back and it stays up in a funky position for a couple of seconds. 

“Are you...safe? Y’know, like, can you breathe?” Bucky asks. 

Steve adverts his eyes. 

“Steve!” Bucky exclaims out of the blue “You can’t be doin’ that!” he scolded. 

Steve sighs “Buck, I just—” 

“Just what?!” Bucky fired back, exasperated and annoyed, but not angry “You need to _breathe,_ and you got asthma in case you’ve forgotten, pal!” Steve wants to role his eyes, he’s perfectly aware of his own anatomy, thankyouverymuch. 

Bucky sighs “Sorry for yellin’ Stevie—Steve, just it’s been a long day and y’know. I thought you’d be all ready to have a nice night with me when I got back, since I got a day off tomorrow, boss says.” 

“I’m sorry.” Steve mumbles barely above a whisper, so quiet he could barely hear it himself, any louder and he wouldn’t be able to cope. 

Bucky runs a hand through Steve’s hair and messes with it and makes it all scruffy and boyish, just the way Steve likes “Don’t be, man. It’s not your fault.” he consoles “But you gotta take that off at some point.” he then said. Steve sends him a displeased look “C’mon, don’t look at me like that!” Bucky exclaims. 

Steve grunts, he wishes Bucky wasn’t...right, Steve pretends he can’t feel it closes round his ribs, making each breath feel like labour or a chore “I’ll look at you how I want—” 

“I just want you to be safe, I know for a fact it’s been more than eight hours.” 

Steve sighs “Alright, fine.” he gave in, and cringed heavily. 

Bucky smiled widely “Attaboy.” he said, Steve smiled just a little bit. It felt weird to him, but sometimes those silly little pennames and nicknames that Bucky would come up with made Steve feel some fort of happy, it made him feel seen, made him feel real in a way. 

“C’mon.” Bucky held out his hands expectedly. 

Steve’s back made several loud popping noises as he sat up straight, or as straight as he could. 

Steve was about to undo the first button before he remembered that he couldn’t just have bucky staring at those misplaced sacks of fat on his chest, even if it would be absolutely nothing new to the two of them, even if Bucky has seen every cervices and curve of Steve’s flesh prison, he still just doesn’t want to acknowledge _that_ part of him right now, or at all really. 

“Can you, um, look away?” Steve gulps, swallowing down a lump in his throat and trying not to pay mind to the thoughts in his head right now. 

“Oh, of course, whatever you need, pal.” Bucky replied and turned away so that Bucky’s back was now facing him, Steve could see the multiple permanent stains in Bucky’s shirt, damn, Steve thought that was the good one. They’d have to get him a new one at some point...if they could afford it, that is. 

Steve’s bony fingers took hold of the first button and undid it. He took a deep breath and did the next few until he could just yank it off. 

Once the old work shirt was laying discarded next to him, Steve then moved to the...thing around his chest. He takes a deep breath and undid the clasps on the back. 

Once that was now discarded on the floor, Steve felt like he could finally take a breath again. It’s bittersweet, he’s not glad to have two unwelcome guests back. But he really took breathing for granted previously. Steve took the work shirt again next to him and calmly slid it back over his slender frame. 

Not feeling the energy to speak again, Steve merely nudged Bucky’s back a little, Bucky turned back around to face Steve again “Oh, good. You're done” he remarked, relieved “How are you feeling? —you don’t need to answer.” Steve wiggled his hand in a ‘so-so’ manner. 

“Oh, okay.” Bucky replied “Can I... hug you?” Bucky asked. 

Steve shrugged, cringing as he felt his chest move. 

Bucky then immediately scooted over closer to Steve and rested Steve's head on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky was warm, just as always, he was like a damn furnace sometimes honestly. 

Steve snuggled into Bucky, tucking his head under Bucky’s chin. 

“I love you.” Bucky said lovingly, pressing a soft and tender kiss to Steve’s forehead. 

“Jerk.” 

“Punk.” 

Steve didn’t like to be babied, but maybe he’ll make an exception, just this one time. 


End file.
